


Roll the Dice

by Missgoldy



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Danger, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Lust, Making Out, Mistletoe, Opposites Attract, Romance, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/pseuds/Missgoldy
Summary: “Are you always so sure of yourself?” she retorts, gesturing to the god-forsaken foliage trailing above her head. “You think I am… how do you say… easy? Demanding kisses and seeking... liberties from me?”“If it means a quality session of tonsil-hockey with you?” he laughs. “Hell yeah! I’ll take that chance.”Five encounters under the mistletoe, with varying degrees of success. Wheeler/Linka
Relationships: Linka/Wheeler (Captain Planet)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Roll the Dice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minkel23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkel23/gifts).



> Written for the 'Yuletide 2019' Exchange

The first time, she’s mortified.

The sprig of mistletoe dangles precariously from the top ledge of the doorway. She’s done her best to avoid it entirely in the lead up to Christmas this year, but he bundles her up there regardless one evening; this cocky, flame-haired kid, brimming with confidence and swagger. He moves with impressive speed, pinning her to the wall between his outstretched palms.

She flattens herself with a yelp, all hot and flushed and flustered, uncomfortable at the level of scrutiny he places upon her. She’s unused to such attention and avoids his penetrating gaze, staring intently at her bare feet as he smirks down at her.

“Hey there.”

“Hello,” she whispers, her cheeks aflame. She bites her lip, shy and awkward, yet this strange boy is causing her pulse to race, and a pleasant tingle radiates from the pit of her stomach. 

“Dangerous passin’ through here, you know,” he drawls, cool and collected, as this is an everyday thing. “Shoulda’ known better.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“Gotta stick with traditions,” he says, his voice low and suggestive, his breath warm against her cheek. “You know what they say about mistletoe?”

“That it is a sexist, archaic custom designed to lure suggestible women into unwanted physical contact?” she mumbles. “Or that it is a parasite particularly toxic to young children and animals?”

“It’s bad luck if you don’t,” he challenges. “Just sayin’.”

“I will take my chances,” she replies blithely, ducking beneath his arms and squirming her way free. He lets her go, but there’s a smile on her lips as she hurries away to her hut, ignoring Kwame's quietly amused presence toiling in the garden.

The flush on her cheeks takes a long time to fade.

* * *

The second time, she’s perched upon the top rung of the ladder, her arms outstretched toward the top of the Christmas tree. The delicate filigree star has no sooner left her grasp when two strong hands grip her waist and lift her to the floor, as if she weighs nothing at all.

Linka grabs his forearms in an attempt to right herself as he nudges her gently against the wall, inhibiting her personal space in a manner that both infuriates and arouses her.

She glances up and her mouth falls open, because she missed the stupid thing, the mistletoe hidden deep within the top branches, biding its time, just as _he_ has.

“Waiting long for an opportunity, Wheeler?” she chides, and he shrugs lazily.

“Yeah. You got me.”

“You will be waiting a long time more, _Amerikanskiy.”_

“I’m a patient guy.”

He looks effortlessly casual today; dressed in a navy polo shirt and denim jeans, and she breathes in the scent of sandalwood that always accompanies his presence. That mix of irritation and attraction flares again.

The collar of his shirt is close to her eye level and she focuses on that instead, on his broad shoulders and the lean muscles of his neck. She realises the error in judgement as her traitorous body reacts accordingly.

Wheeler’s mouth grazes her hairline. He grins, running his finger down her throat and back up again, tilting her chin and forcing her to look at him. “You plannin’ on followin’ tradition this year, babe?”

“No,” she replies resolutely.

“You know what they say —”

“That all women should submit to the whim of men based upon a Norse legend that reduces them to a mere pair of lips? Or a conquest to be pursued, rather than someone of depth and substance? Because, heaven forbid, she’s incapable of giving informed consent due to a sexist cultural tradition where a man deems her sexually acceptable and –“

”Aw, geez.” Wheeler folds his arms across his chest, rolling his eyes with a wide grin. “Seriously?”

“... thinks he has a right to put his hands on her for no reason other than a foolish sense of _entity-ment_ ... _entle_...“

”Entitlement?“

”Shut up, Yankee! Do not get me started on —“

She can’t help herself as she prattles on, nervous and rambling in an effort to diffuse a situation that she finds herself enjoying far too much anyway, which only serves to confuse her further. She’s still fired up, chastising society’s rampant toxic masculinity as he regards her with a bemused expression. He raises his eyebrows.

“You finished?”

“No,” she grumbles, red faced and flustered. “No, I have not.”

“You take the fun outta everything,” he bemoans, clearly amused. He tilts his head, watching her with unabashed interest. “Do you gate-crash children’s birthday parties and tell kids there’s no Santa Claus, too?”

“Are you always so sure of yourself?” she retorts, gesturing to the god-forsaken foliage trailing above her head. “You think I am… how do you say… easy? Demanding kisses and seeking... _liberties_ from me?”

“If it means a quality session of tonsil-hockey with you?” he laughs. “Sure. I’ll roll the dice and take a chance.”

“Ugh,” she sighs, folding her arms across her chest, still staring at his throat and the broad expanse of chest visible through his shirt — which does little to strengthen her resolve. “ _Zho-pa_.”

“You just insulted me, didn’t you?”

“You think I will throw myself at your feet like all of the other girls? Go and ‘roll your dice’ with some other poor, ill-informed woman —”

“You fascinate me,” he says admiringly, by no means fazed by the rejection. He releases her anyway, throwing his hands in the air and wandering away, shaking his head in amusement.

“You’re so damn complex, Linka,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears.

“I know,” she murmurs, speaking to the now empty room.

* * *

The third time is playful.

He grabs her beneath a tree during a mission, somewhere between Christmas Day and New Years Eve. The festive season has been frantic; the days somewhat melding into one another.

One of their typical fiery arguments has lead to this. He holds a suspicious looking bundle of leaves in his hands, and she squirms delightedly, trying to wrench herself free from his embrace, but the effort is somewhat half-hearted, and she secretly basks in the attention.

“Get off me,” she cackles, “you —"

“Do you have to turn everything into a damn pissin’ contest?” he sputters, exasperated, and she can’t help but laugh. “I swear to god, you drive me up the —"

“Someone needs to keep you in line, Yankee,” she retorts, slapping his cheek in a condescending manner. She motions toward the half-dead shrub he’s currently got jammed on top of her head, the leaves already tangled and crumbling in her hair. “Where did you even get that? How do I even know if it is real?”

“Prove that it’s not,” he challenges her. “By my guess, you’re already up to around thirty years of bad luck, so you’ve got nothin’ to lose.”

“But a kiss to gain?”

“Mmm hmm,” he says, leaning forward until they’re nose to nose. “I’ll totally make it worth your while.”

“You speak with such sincerity,” she breathes as he lowers his head, leaning in. Without warning, she jams her fingers into his ribs, and he jumps away with a shout.

“Ow, shit!” he sputters, clutching his sides. “That hurt!”

“I will take the bad luck, Yankee,” she laughs. With a flick of her hair and a backward grin over her shoulder, she struts away, feeling his eyes lingering on her ass and being totally fine with that.

* * *

The fourth time, they’re both drunk.

The mulled wine is still on her lips, and a pleasant haze has settled over her. Linka’s feet feel like two lumps of leaden concrete, but her head is as light as cotton wool.

He’s been watching her all night, and even in her muddled state, she’s aware of how the alcohol has morphed their personalities. She’s become uninhibited and giggly, and his usual exuberance has been dampened somewhat by the wine, leaving him quiet and reflective. She glances up and meets his intense gaze often throughout the third course, almost an unspoken challenge. It’s been happening a lot over the last few months, and their inebriated condition is only fuelling the spark developing between them

She has no idea how they’ve ended up in their current position, embraced together, wedged between a fireplace and an ornate bookshelf filled with old, leather-bound books.

She doesn’t remember leaving the table crammed full of guests and foreign dignitaries, of raucous conversations and appreciative glances from the younger Ivy-League types. Doesn’t recall excusing herself, or wandering the hallways of this grand mansion with her pretty party dress floating around her ankles.

She does recall finding the private study and the fire quietly crackling inside, snooping through the antique desk and searching for potentially incriminating documents that she can’t seem to focus on; just a mass of wiggling symbols that jump about the page.

She recalls the bough of mistletoe on the mantle and the unexpected scent of sandalwood that fills the room. She straightens and turns, giving a huff of surprise as he crowds her body, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. Guided into the corner, she’s trapped against the wall, bowed back somewhat.

She finds herself panting as he ducks down and nuzzles into her neck with a heavy sigh, surprised at how good it feels. There’s nothing intelligent to offer for once, no smart quips that come to mind, or pointed takedowns delivered with an acid-tongued effectiveness. Her body slumps, and she turns soft and compliant in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“You know what they say about mistletoe,” she whispers, her lips nudging his ear lobe, and he gives her a wry smile.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice deep and rumbly and sexy as all hell. His hand falls upon on her hip, his thumb stroking the warm skin beneath the silky material in a way that leaves her breathless and hot and trembling all at once. “Yeah, I do.”

“I heard it brings good luck,” she whispers.

“Yep.” He strokes his thumb across her brow fondly. “Pity I don’t take advantage of drunken women.”

She opens her mouth to reply, no longer staring at her feet or his shirt collar or neck, but the soft flesh of his lips hovering so close to hers. Her eyes lull closed as she angles her face up, waiting expectantly, yet the moment is snatched away before it can begin.

The door swings open, and their private moment turns into a public spectacle as the other Planeteers file in, and this time it’s Wheeler who pulls away first, ducking for cover with a muttered expletive… and it’s Linka who is left feeling wretched and bitterly disappointed.

* * *

There’s a throbbing ache behind her temple, and her forehead lies pressed against cold metal, water lapping at her chin with each minute movement. She’s bleary and disorientated, falling in and out of consciousness, her cheek resting against Wheeler’s outstretched forearm, his chest pressed firmly against her back in an effort to keep her upright.

Water ebbs and flows around them, created by a sudden shift in their bodies. His other arm tightens around her waist as Wheeler moves to change positions, relieving the pressure on his muscles; the direct result of keeping their combined weight above water.

Of course he’d gone in after her, leaping into the tower that was sealed shut soon after by opportunistic thugs.

Of course he'd plunged into the murky waters as the last of the daylight disappeared, the scrape of the metal lid dragging into position, leaving only thin, translucent beams of light in their wake.

Of course he’d retrieved her unconscious body, dragging her to the surface in a panicked splutter. The blood still gushed from her temple, a parting gift from the butt of the gun that had struck her forehead just moments before they’d tossed her in without a second glance.

She’d fallen, and he’d followed, and Linka wouldn’t have expected anything less.

There’s a lone rung of thin metal just above their heads, not enough to sit or perch themselves on, just enough to hold onto as a makeshift handle, and he’s clutching it with an iron grip, keeping them both afloat. After four hours trapped here, their options are to swim, sink or hold on for dear life, and Wheeler thankfully chose the latter.

He repositions himself with a pained grunt, no doubt an effort to alleviate the cramps wracking his hand and arm, and her head lolls back against his shoulder as she fades out again for a while.

There’s no hint of shiny-red berries and foliage trailing high above her head this current festive season, no scent of cinnamon and honey-roasted ham baking in the oven— just this steel coffin and the stagnant water gently swelling around their bodies.

When she wakes again, the tiny specks of daylight are no longer filtering through the seams, and she realises with dread that it’s night-time. No one has found them, and she despairs at the knowledge, stifling a frightened sob.

It’s pitch black, but she knows he’s awake. His breathing is deep and even, but his fingers stroke back and forth against her ribs every now and then, no doubt an effort to soothe himself as much as her.

Part of her wishes Wheeler had rolled the dice on this one, with the option of saving himself and coming back for her later, but there are some things he would never leave to chance. She knows this all too well — knows his propensity for being over-protective, and in times like these, there’s no one else she’d rather be with in a crisis.

Admitting that is getting easier.

Turning wearily to face him, Linka winds her arms around his neck and buries her face in his throat, her body shivering, her eyes closed as she hugs him tightly. They soldier through the metallic creaks and groans caused by the metal expanding and contracting, the only company to be had within their water-logged tomb.

Wiping her eyes miserably, Linka burrows into him with a heavy sigh. He strokes the side of her face, his palm wide and cool against her cheek, and she raises her face without thinking. His mouth eventually finds hers in the dark, and she responds without thought or consideration. She kisses him back passionately, clinging to him like a drowning woman, the air ripped from her lungs as the pressure of five years of proverbial dice rolls finally work to their favor.

They’re exhausted and injured and scared, taking comfort from one another, and it’s a lightbulb moment — the realisation that amongst all the near misses and anti-climactic encounters between them, the perfect moments arise during times such as this. They spring from death and destruction, from moments of impending danger and a feeling of utter helplessness. There’s a sense of implicit trust and mutual respect when they’re staring down the barrel, facing the inevitable.

She’s safe in his arms. He won’t let her go, won’t let her down. She’s burdened when free, yet responsive when imprisoned. There's failure in conversation, yet success in silence. The irony doesn’t escape her. They're _Linka and Wheeler_ ; a mass of contradictions, even down to the tempremental elements they wield, and maybe that's why they just _work_.

She cradles his face in her hands, nuzzling his nose, her lips whispering kisses across his dampened skin. Pulling her closer, he reaches for her legs, coiling them tightly around his waist until there’s no space left between them, no space in both a physical and proverbial sense. No secrets or hesitations or worries, no excuses or redirection, delivered with a hollow, pained reluctance.

The water laps gently around their shoulders as they kiss, quiet and loving, holding and touching one another until the _whirr_ of helicopter blades begin to intrude upon the silence, followed by the frantic sounds of fists slamming on metal. It’s the sound that indicates they’ve been found, when all she wants is to remain lost right now.

It’s when the pair are bundled into the ambulance, thick blankets and towels wrapped around their shivering bodies that she makes a decision. Wheeler is finally asleep, his head propped within her lap, having earned his slumber tenfold. She strokes her fingers through his hair, distracted and barely acknowledging Kwame's droning voice issuing urgent questions she has no inclination to answer right now.

Linka adjusts the blanket over Wheeler's body, smoothing the wrinkles out before wrapping her arms protectively around him, attempting to return a debt she has no hope in hell of repaying. Then and there, she makes the decision to visit him the following night; bearing her own sprig of mistletoe, planning on offering a great deal more than just a kiss with a little less clothing.

Because the fifth time?

The fifth time will be perfect.


End file.
